


Before your morning coffee

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-12
Updated: 2011-05-12
Packaged: 2017-10-19 08:04:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, Sam's never really felt taller than Dean, and Sam's not sure he ever wants to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before your morning coffee

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Written in honor of Sam Winchester's birthday, and for my 10_fics [table](http://dotfic.livejournal.com/371087.html), prompt: _pack_.
> 
> Set in early S2.

A lot of the time, Sam wakes up earlier than Dean, and he sort of enjoys it, the pale light and expectant silence and some time alone. No one bleeding, nothing growling from the shadows or flickering in the corner of his eye or creeping down the walls, no family arguments.

The motel they're in this week is called The Knight's Rest, which Dean says is the dumbest name for a motel he's ever seen except for that place in Arkansas called Forty Winks. The stationary has a sword insignia and the holes in the room divider look like little shields. The carpet's a dark brown and the burgundy bedspreads are heavy, rough to the touch.

Sam slips a finger underneath the cast on his wrist to scratch an itch, listening to Dean's slow breaths, barely audible. He's asleep on his stomach, hand under the pillow where Sam knows he keeps his knife. The scrapes on his neck he got from fighting a demon show above the collar of his t-shirt, the lines a less angry red than they were last night. He seems pretty deep under still, and Sam moves as quietly as he can, barefoot in his sweat pants and undershirt, into the bathroom.

He's up at about the hour Dad always liked them to be up. Sam rests his fingers against the cold porcelain of the sink and takes a deep breath against the jab in his chest, wonders if that will ever stop. It can't help anything now but Sam snatches a small sense of rightness and comfort that John Winchester would approve of him being up moments ahead of the sun.

Thin pale dawn light starts to show through the tiny bathroom window. Sam splashes cold water on his face and brushes his teeth, wincing as the brush hits his cut lip, a souvenir from a demon with thick metal rings on his fingers who caught Sam twice in the face before Dean grabbed it and slammed it against the wall.

Sam rinses then pushes his tongue against the cut. It only hurts a little. Sam does fine, even with his hurt wrist, but Dean seems to always be checking on him more than usual, too watchful. He thought they were past that. He's not sure how he feels about being past that.

He gets dressed, noticing a hole in the knee of his jeans -- Dean doesn't mind that kind of thing but Sam decides he'll sew it up as soon as they're settled at the next motel.

They live out of duffel bags so there isn't much that needs packing, but there's some, and Dean said yesterday he wanted to get to Cranston by noon, so Sam figures he'll get started and let Dean get an extra hour or so of sleep.

It's scary, seeing Dean reel the way he has, the cracks Sam never remembered seeing in his brother before. Maybe they've always been there and Sam couldn't see it, but that doesn't seem quite right -- these are fresh. Sam pauses, a dirty sock in his hand, to glance over at Dean as he turns on his side and coughs, eyes still closed.

Sam finds all the underwear and socks and shirts they've let fall to the floor. He doesn't bother folding, only balls them up neatly and stuffs them into the laundry duffel.

About twenty minutes later, Dean grunts his I'm-awake-now grunt.

"Hey, sunshine!" Sam makes his voice as annoyingly cheerful as possible, imitating how Dean acts when Sam has morning grumpy.

"Yeah, whatever." Dean rubs his hand over his face, eyes bleary and short hair sticking up.

He rolls out of bed and stumbles on purpose as he passes Sam, jabbing his elbow into Sam's ribs while Sam is gathering up books from the dresser.

"Asshole," Sam says, without losing his footing, and goes on with his work.

"Geek," Dean mutters, and disappears into the bathroom.

Sam's got all the books put away into his knapsack by the time Dean emerges with a whiff of mint Crest, running his fingers through his slightly damp hair to smooth out the spikiness. Now he looks as alert as if he's been up for hours.

Dean gets dressed quickly while Sam finishes up the packing. There's a tattered paperback of _Casino Royale_ in Dean's duffel bag, Sam notices when he puts away Dean's sweatshirt. Sam recognizes that it's the one he bought at a used bookstore seven years ago to give to Dean for his birthday -- it's weird that Dean would still have it. He flashes on memories of Dean reading that book, lying on his stomach on various motel beds, shooting Sam an irritated look when Sam told Dean he shouldn't dog-ear the pages.

The scent of Doritoes comes back to Sam: studying for tests he might not even be present to take, looking for any excuse to fight with Dad, Dean defusing half of those battles before they could get started, sometimes with nothing more than a laconic smart remark that drew Dad's attention away from the main issue as he told Dean not to be a smart-ass.

"I'm getting coffee," Dean says, heading for the door in his last clean t-shirt, jeans, and boots -- he doesn't bother with a jacket, it's been warm. "You want?"

"I'll have a latte."

"Of course you will, princess."

Sam flips up his middle finger and Dean snaps a quick, big grin back before he steps out into the sunlight.

Everything's packed by the time Dean returns, the duffel bags lined up on Sam's bed, which he made with military straight lines. Dean whistles as he hands Sam his drink.

"Well, aren't you Mr. Rogers this morning."

Dean's bed is still a tumbled mess of sheets and blankets. He sits down on it to drink his coffee, not seeming to care.

"It's--" Sam begins, and stops as he envisions Dean's reaction to hearing Sam pour out how it helps with the ache of missing their father, and helps shove away the fear of what's next, and of wondering why Dean seems like he's carrying something invisible and heavy every minute and the frown on Dean's face when he watches Sam sometimes, when he thinks Sam doesn't notice.

"So." Dean takes a sip of his drink. "We're ready to blow this popsicle stand, then."

"Yeah," says Sam.

"Good, I want to get an early jump on whatever this sonuvabitch is that's treating people like kibble." He takes another swallow of coffee and then he's up and making his bed one-handed, a few tugs here and there and in half the time it takes Sam, the covers are neatly in place.

Then Dean grabs the heaviest duffel, the one with the weapons, still holding his coffee with his other hand, and slings the bag over his shoulder like it weights nothing, although Sam sees the muscles in Dean's arm go taut. Sam thinks for the thousandth time in his life how things sometimes seem so easy for Dean.

He remembers the triumph when they first discovered Sam was taller, but the thing is, he's never really felt taller than Dean, and Sam's not sure he ever wants to.

"Nice job with the packing, Mister Efficiency," Dean says, heading for the door. "I could've picked up my own dirty laundry."

"Uh, well, I thought you could use the extra sleep."

He sees Dean's step falter at that, but then he makes a _whatever_ face. Sam grabs another bag, and follows his brother outside.


End file.
